


Boogeyman's Courtship

by punklike



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Courtship, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Michael's A Bastard, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 04:56:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20109496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punklike/pseuds/punklike
Summary: The likelihood of you becoming the Boogeyman's new obsession should have been a one in every-one-else-in-Haddonfield chance, but it seems he has other ideas. Also, is he leaving you gifts?





	Boogeyman's Courtship

It _should _have been just a normal night for you.

A night with feet kicked up on the coffee table, double chocolate brownie ice cream in one hand, spoon in the other, and last but not least, your favorite horror movie blasting on the television. All other responsibilities meant little to you during these, as you like to call them, “me, myself and I” self-care times. So much so that you forget the eerie feeling you’ve been having for the past few days, too focused on preparing for your one yearly appointed binge night. Still, you blame the feeling on the fact that Halloween is only five days away — everyone inevitably gets the heebie jeebies one way or another. Feeling like something’s behind you? oldest trick against yourself in the book! Still, subconsciously you can’t stop peering over your shoulder the next few days. Always laughing it off when you see no one there, chastising yourself for acting like anyone in Haddonfield would have the nerve to pull a stunt like that. 

After all, everyone tries their damnedest to separate themselves from the chaos and bloodshed that seems to follow the holiday in their streets. 

So you deny and deny, continue to deny a little more until three days before Halloween. 

You were leaving the grocery store, arms holding a few grocery bags laden full of snacks and candy for the kids that would excitedly buzz on your doorbell till you wanted to take the damn thing apart, and then you see it move out of the corner of your eye — a white streak; subtle if you weren’t paying attention to your surroundings. (You’re not paranoid, absolutely not! you _ constantly _ checking over your shoulder these past two days wasn’t for any particular reason at all!) But now, the hairs that raise on your arms and neck tell you what you’ve been dreading: someone’s got their eyes on you. It’s too easy for you to laugh it off, blame it on overzealous kids who want to start the fun early. Scare the living shit out of everyone before the suns even had a chance to set, you could respect it since once upon a time you’d have done the same thing. Now though, at twenty-four years old, you can’t help but want to scowl at the offender. Flip them the bird and a few choice words along the lines of: “don’t think I won't beat your ass if you try to pull something!” Yet there you stand, arms full of groceries with your keys dangling from between your teeth and your eyes focused on the white streak present in the trees settled on your right. It feels like forever that you’re standing there, but you know, realistically, it’s only a breath; you blink and the person (which you’re divided between it actually being someone and your imagination — don’t want your paranoia making a fool of you!) disappears, and you know then that's your cue to **get out **of there. 

You do, wincing at the squeal your tires make peeling out of the parking lot, and the fact that your speedometer ran up to 50 when you know that most of the streets were at a strict 25 mph. You’re just lucky you get home unscathed, and speeding ticket-less. 

Looking back now, you chastise yourself for being a fool and, inevitably, writing it off as a Halloween prank. Honestly, _ who _ in their right mind would actively choose to dress up as Michael Myers — who else wears an eerily-translucent white mask? — knowing that Haddonfield is all but ready to bust out their guns and any weapon within their reach and seek justice on this notorious murderer. It was a case of ignorance is bliss, and now, fast forward, that ignorance has you speed walking down the sidewalk on Halloween night; heart pounding in your chest as you swear, _ you swear _ you can feel Michael breathing down your neck. You don’t look back, who looks back anymore? You’re not ready to be faced with the reality of your situation: you’ve somehow become this guy’s new main squeeze — **his obsession** . You want to scream, stomp your feet and glare at the guy! Why _ me _ , of all people in this godforsaken town? There are much easier, more juicy (?) options than yourself; you’re just trying to live your best life … _ not dead _ , thank you very much. But you’ve heard through the grapevine (gossip, you’ve heard it through gossip and hearsay) that he’s not much of a talker, more of an action man. If this were any other individual, you’d laugh, probably say that that’s not necessarily a bad thing! Now though, now you want this guy to _ slow _his roll; stomp the breaks or something! Ask for a date first before deciding to stalk, and possibly disemboweling you; you’ve decided that you’d like to be treated nicely before being murdered, at the very least. 

But no, this is _ Michael Myers _ . Boogeyman of Haddonfield. The dude you recite stories about to your children in order to get them to behave and do their chores. He absolutely doesn’t give a shit that you’re just trying to _ live _. 

Against your best judgement, you cast a quick look over your shoulder and, of course, immediately regretted it. You can just barely see him skulking around the trees, trying to keep out of your direct line of sight, but wanting you to know that **he’s still there —** following, biding his time before he eventually strikes. You’re really getting sick of this cat and mouse game. If you can just get home, you’ll lock yourself in your house and call the police! Everything will be fine, and you won’t ever have to see the likes of his eerie white mask again! With each step you take, however, your plan starts to feel like a last ditch effort at protecting your life. If the Boogeyman was capable of escaping in the first place ... again, who is to say that the police are going to be able to do anything about him? Didn’t he take out a whole police station by his lonesome before? Okay, yeah, you’re screwed. 

Completely terrified now, your pace picks up until your running; legs pumping you forward and your arms doing _ something _ . You’re just hoping to whatever high Heaven, to whatever deity is sitting up there that they’ll have mercy on you and let you run this out; just make it home _ then _they can rain whatever types of cramps and burning lungs on you in the security of your home. Too bad higher beings have a sadistic sense of humor; you’re too busy focusing on getting home that you don’t see a leg stick out ominously from an alleyway. It happens too quick for you to slow down and your foot is catching on their ankle, arms moving out in front of you to catch you before you land face first 

“Ouch, shit!” You squeak as you land on your hands and knees, wincing at the scrapes and scars that assuredly are going to litter your flesh. There’s no time to inspect that blood that’s trickling down both of your hands, the back of your shirt is snatched and your hauled back to your feet. Back pressed against the grimy alley wall, a stinking breath keeping you secured in place as you peer at your new attacker. Great luck you have! Shifting in the uncomfortable grip that’s moved to your forearm, your face scrunches up into a menacing scowl — teeth all but bared at this guy. 

“Hey, listen, I don’t have anything, okay?” Despite the obvious disgust on your face, you still try to reason; the last thing you want is two potential murderers after you, but apparently it hasn’t clicked in the guy’s head that you’ve nothing to spare him. Nothing but a pair of house keys stuffed in your pocket, ready to be whipped out the very moment you step onto your porch, promising safety inside.

“Nothin’, huh? Thought it was gonna be my lucky day,” He’s looking you up and down like a piece of meat; as if, surely, you’re just saying that in hopes that he’ll be a good little burglar and let you leave. After all, you’ve nothing to give him. _Wrong, wrong, why are you always wrong_. “Maybe I oughta just take you for compensation, yeah? For leadin’ me on and all.” Your mouth goes dry at the words, and the leering look that’s taken residence on his features. Ugh, _ men_.

“Why don’t you go lead yourself off the nearest cliff, pal,” The words are spit out before you think better of it. Too intent on getting out of this guy’s grasp, and very far away from the skulking shadow that has to have absolutely gotten closer to your position. His grip on your arm tightens, nails all but biting into your flesh and you grit your teeth against the pain. Okay, so maybe not the wisest words you’ve spoken lately. It doesn’t take long for your assailant to go from one extreme to the next; a glittering pocket knife all but stuck in your face. You gulp, deciding right then and there if this is a better ending than the one waiting for you outside the alley way. Eyes turn from assailant to said alley opening, curious to see if **he’s ** finally caught up to you. By the heavy breathing that’s pierced the air, _ he has _. 

“What ‘er you lookin’ at, pay attention to me,” Your eyes flick back in front of you. Maybe it’s the morbidity of the circumstances or your own shit humor, but you can’t help but smile … wide.

“What’s so funny, you **tryin’ ** to die, bitch?” With your teeth all but bared in your smile, you lock gazes with the Boogeyman of Haddonfield; the guy you absolutely don’t want having you on his _ shit list_. “At least I know that when I die,” and you turn your attention back to this guy, free hand balling into a fist, “You’ll be joining me!” Raising your fist, you pop the guy in the face the best you can. All you know is that he flinches, giving you enough time to duck and scramble away from him. You’re awaiting the harsh return of violence, the grabbing of your hair to throw you on the ground, anything, but it doesn’t come. Instead, all you hear is a brief scuffle, a curse, and the disgusting sound of a blade sliding easily into flesh and the gurgling voice of a dying man. Your eyes lock with your assailant’s, the light steadily leaving his eyes as he realizes his mistake in pursuing you. 

Maybe, and it’s a morbid thought, _ maybe _being the Boogeyman’s new obsession has its perks. Sort of. 

You don’t waste anymore time; don’t wait for the inevitable removal of a blade from flesh and the sickly noise of a corpse falling. All you care about is the smacking of your sneakers on the pavement, the breath entering and exiting your lungs, and the relieved feeling of knowing that your keys are jingling along in your pocket. With how fast your running, you’re sure you can put everyone to shame in the town; only stopping once you’ve managed to get up on your porch without busting through your locked door. Taking a calming breath, you shove the key into the lock and twist, throwing yourself inside and closing the door behind you before locking it. From there it’s a blur, all you know is that your hands are still bleeding but you have the telephone between your shoulder and ear, babbling today’s events at the 911 operator on the other side. They promise you that the police are on there way, and when they arrive, promise you that they’ll keep a car stationed outside your house for the night. Hands still bloodied, and your favorite jeans torn, the conclusion of tonight’s events boil down to the basics: they’re positive it was just some kids trying to scare you, Halloween’s coming up soon after all, but that they’ll look into a potential suspect for the almost-mugging. 

If you weren’t exhausted out of your mind, you would tell them that you’re absolutely positive that it _was_ Michael Myers and not just some random teenager out for a laugh. Seriously, how are you going to be able to forget the sound of a blade tearing into flesh? How do you just make that up? But they’re likewise persistent, tired, and outright irritated they have to be there anyway; so you don’t push it anymore. Instead, you thank them for at least watching over your house with their precious time.

* * *

Freshly bathed and bandages littering your hands and knees, you hear a knock. Thinking it’s one of the police, you don’t think when you go to flip on the lights for outside. That’s when you hear it again, but this time geared towards your backdoor. Shit. Shit. Shit! Quietly, holding your breath, you slowly round the corner just enough to see the outside. And that’s when you see it. The head. The head of the guy who attacked you in the alley way. The guy who you said was going to die with you. Well, he’s dead alright, and you’re not. 

It’s a fucking _ head _ , and it’s basically _ giftwrapped _ just for **you**.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting a fic publicly, so be gentle!! Also I have no clue where I'm going w/ this. I have a general idea, but really it's just Michael being a bastard so enjoy.


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